


A Friend in Need

by DangerFloof



Series: A Two Parent, Two Bottles of Wine a Night Job [12]
Category: Bob's Burgers (Cartoon)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Drinking & Talking, Explicit Language, Family Issues, Forgiveness, Frenemies, Growing Up, Parenthood, Personal Growth, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22884196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerFloof/pseuds/DangerFloof
Summary: Bob and Louise each find friendship and commiseration in unexpected places.
Series: A Two Parent, Two Bottles of Wine a Night Job [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1052096
Comments: 38
Kudos: 37





	1. ONE

**_ Sunday Morning _ **

“Bob. Bob? Bobby, wake up.”

Bob can dimly hear his wife calling his name in the distance, somewhere past the roaring in his head. He cracks open one eye and morning sunlight lances him from pupil to bald patch.

“Oh God,” he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. It’s a mistake; the movement jars his aching head, making his stomach roll.

“Well, he’s alive, at any rate,” Louise mutters.

Bob slowly sits up, carefully glancing around him with squinting eyes. He’s draped on the family’s couch, with Linda, Gene, and Louise hovering uncomfortably close to him.

Bob licks his lips with a furred tongue. His mouth tastes of stale vodka and a few other things—maybe rum, he’s not sure—and the sour stench of vomit almost makes him loose it.

“Who barfed?” Bob mutters, trying to get his bearings, vaguely thinking he should get a bucket and rags. He’s reminded of that terrible winter when 6-year-old Tina, 4-year old Gene, and 2-year-old Louise all contracted some sort of stomach bug within 12 hours of each other. Baby Louise, unable to understand what was happening, shrieked in terror whenever she or anyone else vomited, which was particularly unfortunate, as there was _a lot_ of puking happening in their apartment. The smell set off Linda and Gene’s weak stomachs, so they hurled whenever anyone else did, and unlucky little Tina had to keep a couple of buckets beside her at all times, as her illness tended to come out of both ends at once.

“You did, Bob.”

“All over yourself!” Gene adds.

“And the stairs,” Louise grumbles. “I slipped in it. Guess I won’t be able to go to school Monday with my twisted ankle and all.”

“You’re _going_ to _school_ on Monday, Miss Missy.”

Frowning, Linda hands him a large tumbler of water. He’s careful to sip, rather than chug, though he’s so thirsty he’s sure he could easily drain three glasses with no problems at all. He’s sticky and smelly with alcohol sweats. God, he hasn’t been this hung over in _years_!

“Why-why did you slip in it?”

“Who do you think carried your fat ass up the stairs? Gene?”

“ _Louise…_ ”

“Well, _practically_ carried you, anyway. You weren’t much help. Some role model you are! If you’ll excuse me, I hear the shower calling my name.”

Bob watches his daughter head back to her room with a slight limp to get a fresh set of clothes and her little toiletries basket. Even turning his eyes back to Linda is an effort.

“What…what happened?”

“I don’t know, Bob. Did you ever get the groceries?”

“Crap! The groceries!” He remembers a bit now. They had nothing for dinner, the restaurant was slow, and, frankly, he had to get away from Louise, so he volunteered to do the shopping.

He pulls out his wallet. He’s fifty bucks short, but none of his cards seem to be missing. That’s…that’s something.

Gene comes in with a mug of steaming coffee. “This should help, Father.”

Bob raises his brows but accepts the mug; he must be in rough shape, Gene only calls him “Father” when he’s sick.

“I’ll get a washcloth,” Gene says. “I mean, you don’t want to walk around with a big penis and ‘Bob sux’ on your face all day, right?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Well, it’s pretty smeared, so at least it’s not a tattoo…”

Swaying on uneven feet—stumbling because where _is_ his left shoe, anyway—Bob manages to make it to the little decorative mirror Linda hung by the bookcase, and looks at his reflection. He’s pale, almost a touch greenish, his jaw stubbly, and, as Gene said, his forehead is smeared with black ink, but you can still make out “Bob” over his right eye, and most of “Sux” over his left eye. The penis is mostly gone, but he can still make out the testicles near his hairline, and the head drawn on the bulb of his nose.

“ _Craaaaaap…._ ”

“Oh, and who can forget this little tune?” Linda’s eyes twinkle as she holds up her phone and plays a message.

It’s just possible to hear Bob over the clatter and laughter of wherever he was. _“Linda! …bar and…home soon…with my new friend Jimmy Pesto!”_

Jimmy Pesto Senior shouts something unintelligible.

_“Yeah, my new **best**_ _friend, Jimmy Pesto! Love yooooooou!”_

“I…went drinking…with Jimmy Pesto?” Memories begin to flash in his mind, of Long Island ice teas, and…something about the kids?

Bob groans and rests his forehead against the cool glass. What the hell got into him?

“There, there, Bob.” Linda rubs light, comforting circles on his back. She turns to her son.

“Genie-Beanie, do you think you can do the pre-open while I help your father pull himself together?”

Gene sighs. “Just when things were getting good. You better give me the 411.”

“Fine. Go!”

Muttering to himself about the unfairness of it all, Gene grabs the keys from the peg and thunders downstairs.

“You know…you know he’s going to half-ass it, right Lin?”

“Quarter-ass it, more like. Well, you aren’t in any condition to do it, I have to take care of you, and Louise _did_ pretty much carry you up here. And—and clean the stairwell,” she adds, swallowing hard; it’s a tie as to which is her worse “Achillies Heel,” bad smells or pretty people. “Between you and me, I think Louise really _did_ torque that tricky ankle of hers.”

“Ha! I knew it!”

Neither parent heard Louise creep into the living room and jump at the sight of her. She grins broadly at them, holding fresh clothes and a green plastic basket of toiletries in her hands.

“Louise, go shower. Please,” Linda adds with a grimace, because the sick smell is worse with Louise and her spattered pajamas standing there.

“Fine, whatever. At least you admit I’m not lying.”

Bob and Linda wait until she closes the bathroom door. Linda turns to her husband. “So, what was last night all about?”

Bob sits back down and grips the big tumbler of water in both hands. Memories are flooding back now. “I…it’s weird, but…I…I think I made a new friend.

* * * * *

**_ Saturday Afternoon _ **

“Dad! If you’d just _read_ the report I _know_ you’d love it.“

Bob glances up from the grill. They’ve almost finished recovering from a slow lunch rush, and Louise stands in the kitchen doorway holding a packet of papers in one hand, her hip in the other, and a stubborn set to her jaw that makes Bob’s hackles rise.

“We’ve been over this before, Louise,” he says, scrubbing harder at a black spot with the grill brick. “Door—Grub—whatever, it’s too expensive. Twenty percent commission on each sale! We’d only get paid once a week, and then there’s that tablet thing…we’d hemorrhage money. No thank you.”

“Oh my God, _Dad_ , we’d be _investing_ in the business! It’s the 21st century, this is the way people eat. Look—look here…” Louise flips through the pages and holds up a graph. “I’ve compared our place with 10 similarly sized mom-and-pop joints in the Bog Harbor area that use delivery services. I project that our margins on delivery orders will be up between 30 to 40% without increasing overhead. Dine-in is currently about 10%. And it’s another way to drive our brand presence—“

“Louise, that’s enough.”

“Would you just—“

“ _Louise, that’s_ _enough_!” Bob glowers at his daughter. “I said _no_. And stop with all the accounting speak; you sound like some sort of business monster.”

Louise glowers right back. “ _No_ , I _sound_ like someone who knows how money works. Spoiler alert; installing an espresso machine in a struggling greasy spoon is a _drain_ , not an _investment!_ ”

“It would have paid for itself! Eventually.”

“Dad, we were the only burger joint in the country with an espresso machine. It made no sense!”

“No, stealing it to pawn for money to send your brother to a fake baseball camp made no sense!”

Linda pops her head through the little order window. “I know I’m not hearing you two arguing back there again.”

Father and daughter exchange guilty looks. Linda returned to work earlier this week, and the entire family walks on eggshells around her, trying not to upset her.

“No, Lin.”

“Of course not, Mom.”

“Well, good,” she says, giving her husband and daughter significant looks. “I want a nice, quiet Saturday, alright?”

“Sure, Mom,” Louise grumbles.

“Right, Linda.”

Louise waits until she hears her mother laughing with Teddy and Mort before she places the report on the prep table. “I’ll just leave this here for you to peruse later…”

Bob slams down the grill brick, snatches up the papers, and tosses them in the trash. “ _Don’t_ leave random things on the prep table! I’ve told you that a _million times_.”

Their eyes instinctively swivel to the window, but Linda and their two best customers are still chattering on.

“Whatever, I have it on the computer,” Louise hisses. “You keep saying you don’t know who the hell I am or what the hell I’m doing, and I show you, and you bitch me out.”

Bob balls his fists and emits a low, frustrated scream from his clenched teeth. He storms over to the window. “Hey, Lin!”

“Yeah, Bob?”

“I’m going to buy groceries for tonight. How about turkey meatballs and spaghetti squash?”

Linda takes one look at his thunderous face and sighs; she understands all too well what’s going on. “Sounds great. Take your time, Louise and I can close up.”

Cutting a dirty look at his daughter, Bob snatches his jacket off the hook and storms out of the restaurant. She pokes her tongue out and flips two birds behind his back.

“Fine, be an asshole, I don’t care,” Louise mutters to herself as she picks up the grill brick.

“I _know_ I didn’t hear that, Miss Missy.”

Louise jumps. “What are you, a ninja?”

Linda watches her daughter finish scrubbing the flat top. “Honey, I need you to try—“

It’s Louise’s turn to throw down the grill brick. “Talk to _him_ about trying!”

“Look, it’s a lot, you know? With your brother and sister flying the nest, and my heart attack, and then you and Zeke…it’s going to take a while to adapt to our new normal.”

“I’m practically on house arrest, Dad snips at me about a thousand times a day, and when I _try_ to share what I’ve learned to help the _freakin’ family_ he shuts me down! I made an A+ on that paper! He’d _know_ that if he’d _looked_ at it before he tossed it in the trash, but _nooooo!_ He’d rather act like it’s 1985 and everyone still rides t-rexes to ye olde ale house for dinner!”

“Okay, dial down the drama. You aren’t under house arrest, and—“

Louise raises an eyebrow. “So he _didn’t_ follow me to school twice last week?”

Her mother flushes, and Louise smirks triumphantly. Linda left most of the parenting issues to Bob while she recovered, and now that she’s feeling more or less like herself, Linda’s looked around, and isn’t entirely pleased with what he’s done. Convinced that their daughter is still hiding _something_ , he’s taken to occasionally following her to school, or “surprising” her by picking her up at the end of the day. They’ve squabbled repeatedly about curfew, with Bob winning only because he told her if she’s late, he’ll assume she ran away to Zeke, and will call the police. In general, he spends a lot of time checking up on her, and Linda can see why her independent, almost-adult daughter is angry.

“I know. I’ll talk to him about that.”

“ _Thank you_. Glad to know I have _one_ sane parent around here.”

“On one condition.”

Louise rolls her eyes. “I knew it, here it comes—“

“You try to see this from your father’s perspective.”

Louise sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of her nose, looking so much like Bob that Linda almost laughs.

“Louise, we love you, but we don’t have much reason to trust you right now—and don’t talk to me about legalities, you knew we’d intervene, that’s why you hid Zeke from us. You told us a major lie of omission for almost two years, you can’t undo that damage in a few weeks.”

“Well, what can I do to fix it when he bites my head off ten times a day?”

“You could try…not antagonizing him ten times a day?”

“Come on, Mom, it’s me,” Louise snorts.

“His baby, his favorite, had a secret life, made him look like a fool, Louise,” Linda says softly, tucking a curl behind Louise’s hair. “He’s not going to move on quickly.”

Louise blinks in astonishment; it was always tacitly understood that she was her father’s favorite child, but nobody ever admitted as much aloud. She picks up the grill brick. “Way to rub in the salt, Mom.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Uh, Lin?” Calls Teddy from the front of the house. “I don’t want to interrupt, but you got some more customers out here.”

“Oh, nuts.” Linda pats her daughter’s cheek. “We can pick this up later, okay honey?”

Louise shrugs. But there’s a little smile on her face as she watches her mother leave the kitchen, calling cheerfully to the new customers. _Gotta love that woman._

* * * * *

Since it’s just a quick run, Bob grabs a small half-cart as he stomps into Fresh Feed. Greg, Linda’s old boss, gives him the stink eye, but Bob doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that the place is crowded with Saturday afternoon shoppers, or that he’s nearly kneecapped by a toddler with one of those kiddie carts. No, crowds are fine, good even; the longer he takes, the less time he as to spend around Louise, and that’s best for everyone.

Bob manages to wend his way to the produce section. He tosses an onion and a couple of bulbs of garlic into the cart. They’re joined by salad fixings, and a lemon he’ll juice and add to olive oil to make a dressing. Linda’s new diet—light on salt and saturated fat, high on fruits, veggies, and lean meats—has forced a culinary renaissance in their home. Though Bob flexes his chef muscles at the restaurant, and on holidays and other special occasions—especially Thanksgiving—for years he’s regularly fed his family easy, comfort meals. (“Stodgy” was Tina’s assessment, last time he talked to her about it.)

Sighing, he makes his way over to the squashes. He made salmon and acorn squash with a brown rice and lentil pilaf last night; even Louise, who usually insists that lentils taste like dirt, liked it. He picks up one of the smooth yellow spaghetti squashes and checks it for bruises or cuts. Satisfied with his third choice, he places it carefully in the cart.

“Ugh, I knew something stank around here! _Zoom!_ ”

Bob’s shoulders twitch at the familiar sound of Jimmy Pesto mocking him. He turns to see the faux-Italian smirking, clutching a bottle of wine in his hand.

“Did you get a whiff of that trash you call fettuccine?”

“Ha-ha. That’s as lame as your burgers, Bob.” Jimmy Pesto eyes his cart. “What, you aren’t driving away enough customers with your hoity-toity burgers, you want to send your family running too?”

_His family, running, abandoning him…_ “For your information, _Jimmy_ , this is what a _real_ chef does—cooks from _scratch_ , with _actual_ food! Oh, and—“

Jimmy holds up his hands. “Okay, okay! Peace. I gotta proposition for you, Bob.”

“What, _Jimmy?_ ”

There’s a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “If you murder my kid, I’ll murder yours,” he shrugs.

Bob blinks; that’s probably the nicest thing Jimmy’s ever said to him. Bob knows he’s looking into the eyes of another wounded father, one who’s also silently suffering from his child’s choices. He never expected to find a kindred spirit in Jimmy Pesto, but there he is.

“Too bad it’s not that simple,” Bob sighs.

“Yeah.”

Bob rubs his hand idly over the squash, while Jimmy fiddles with the twist cap on the wine bottle.

“Hey, Bob.”

“Yeah, Jimmy?”

Jimmy shrugs, diving deeper into what Bob thinks of as Jimmy’s affected, “badda-bing” accent. “You wanna go get a drink or somethin’? You know, hold a session of The Disappointed Father’s Club?”

Bob glances down at his cart. He should get home and make sure Linda has a proper meal tonight; she might not have had her heart attack if he been a better husband, a better chef, and had fed her healthier food. And of course, Jimmy’s a total ass. But…Bob doesn’t have many friends, few of them are fathers, and none of them are going though a difficult time with their kids right now. It would be nice to talk to someone who’s also struggling, even if it is just stupid Jimmy Pesto.

“Sure,” he says, chalking one up to spontaneity. “I’ll come back later for this stuff.”


	2. TWO

Bob holds up a tall glass. “Here’s to the first meeting of the Disappointed Father’s Club!”

Jimmy Pesto, seated on the stool next to Bob, is still mulling over the Lucky Lizard's menu. He lifts his glass of water and clinks. He takes a sip, and squints at Bob’s drink.

“What fruity crap are you slurping there, Bob?”

“Long Island ice tea.” He’s pretty sure this is the same bartender from all those years ago when he and Linda, faux-tanned and faux child-free, partied here. Honestly, Bob doesn’t remember a lot about that evening, though he’s sure they played disco music, not classics from the 80’s. But this is a good drink, and the bartender calls him “Chief,” so he doesn’t really care.

“Damn, Bob, does Linda keep your nuts in her purse? C’mon, it’s us guys, get a man’s drink!”

“Are you really so insecure you have to genderize _drinks_ , Jimmy?” Bob waves his hand to get the bartender’s attention. “One Long Island ice tea for this chump!”

The bartender—Bob decides to call him Isaac—shoots finger guns in his direction. “You got it, Chief!”

Bob grins proudly at Jimmy, who, sighing in surrender, mutters something about “pussy drink” under his breath.

“So, _Grandpa_ , how’s Jocelyn these days?”

Jimmy, who was eye-banging a young woman in a tiny skirt dancing with her girl friends to Def Leppard’s “Photograph,” flinches. “Heeeeey, ixnay on the…uh, andpaday? Shit, you know what I mean,” he adds, flushing as he runs a hand over his pompadour.

Bob laughs quietly. That’s the nice thing about being married, he doesn’t care if he looks old and tragically uncool in front of young women.

Isaac sets a tall, lemon garnished glass in front of Jimmy. Jimmy grunts something that might be thanks, picks it up and takes a drink. “Mmm!”

“See?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jimmy grumbles, going in for another sip. “And she’s fine, by the way. You should know—I see her at your place all the time.”

Bob nods. “Louise is tutoring her.”

“Yeah, and how’s that going?”

“Well, Louise usually retreats to her room afterwards and swears she’s never helping anyone ever again. But I hear Jocelyn can type with both hands now, so…”

The men share a chuckle. Jimmy sighs deeply. “Remember when the kids would all hang out together? Who knew it would turn to this?”

“Yeah, but Jocelyn’s not a bad kid, just…you know…”

“Would you hire her?”

“No!” Bob’s almost finished with his drink; how’d that happen? “She’d be a terrible secretary. But…” A memory flashes. “You know, she was really good with salads when we did the home ec-straunt.”

“The what? Bob, you’re slurring already.”

Bob proceeds to tell Jimmy about teaching home economics all those years ago. “She really had a flair for plating and flavor combinations.”

“Great, the mother of my first grandkid can toss a mean salad.”

“Phrasing!”

Caught somewhere between horror and hilarity, the fathers share a pained laugh.

* * * * *

The restaurant’s dead, the kitchen is clean, it’s after 5:30, and Louise has finished all the administrative work for the day. She’s washing her hands from taking out the trash when she hears the front door chime.

“Faaaaaamily! I’m _hooooome_!”

Linda, in charge of the front of the house as always, greets her son cheerfully. “Oh, you look so nice!”

Louise pops her head through the order window. Gene spent the entire day shopping with friends over at Kingshead Island, but he’s only carrying two small bags—Gene is typically feast or famine when it comes to spending money. His hair, still long, is about three inches shorter than it was when he left this morning, and glossy. It looks like he’s wearing highlighter on his cheekbones too.

Gene sinks into one of the booths. “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.”

“I just finished cleaning the grill!”

“Louise, make your brother a burger. It’ll just be a quick clean up.”

She groans, but the sight of her brother, relaxed and smiling, gives her an idea. “Gene, you really didn’t spend much today, did you?”

“Nope,” he smiles proudly. “Just a haircut, a new highlighter, and a shirt.”

“Yeah, didn’t dig _too_ deep into your Big Apple savings, did you?”

Gene squints at her. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, I’m just saying, you’d recoup some of it if you closed for me tonight—“

“I don’t think so!”

“Come on, Gene, _pleeeeeeease!_ ”

As usual, Linda sides with her son. “Louise, don’t harass your brother.”

“I’m not,” Louise insists as she slaps a couple of patties on the grill—Gene always likes a double. “I’m just trying to help! I mean, I know he’s trying to save up as much as he can for his move…”

Gene sighs. The whole family knows he’s become much more financially responsible now that his move date is looming only two months away. He’s determined to not be like Jimmy Junior, and have to run back home with his tail between his legs because he can’t hack it on his own. Plus, well, he keeps thinking about his mother in the hospital. What if she’d…passed…without seeing her favorite son become rich and famous? He can’t become a celebrity in Seymour’s Bay; New York is the only city in the world big enough for his dreams.

“Feed me and we’ll see. I want a double, extra cheese, but a _small_ fry.”

“Of course!” Louise grins, confident that freedom is only a half-hour away.

* * * * *

Bob, by now about a third of the way through his second Long Island, is trying to pace himself. He and Jimmy are splitting a large appetizer platter stuffed with bar food. Jimmy particularly likes the mozzarella sticks, while Bob is partial to the thick-cut, beer-battered onion rings. He picks one up and takes a bite, savoring the oily goodness. He’s going to feel like sluggish crap tomorrow. Bob licks salt from his lip; _Worth it._

“If he’d just gone on to New York in the first place maybe this wouldn’t have happened. But _nooo_ , he insisted that he wanted to establish himself in the business first, go there with a name already and now… how’s he gonna to support himself there _and_ his daughter here? He couldn’t even support _himself_ in _Trenton_!”

“Has Jocelyn asked for support yet?”

Jimmy nods, dipping a mozzarella stick into the little pot of marinara sauce. “She and her mom ain’t very bright, but her dad is. Junior’s bitchin’ up a storm about the cost, but I think it’s pretty reasonable, and it’s only gonna get worse as the kid gets older.”

Jimmy pauses, chews, swallows. “My granddaughter. Huh. Weird. Guess he ain’t going to New York now.”

“I thought you always hated his dancing.”

Jimmy shakes his head. “Nah, I just hated it when he horsed around instead of doing his work. I signed him up for dance classes when he was a kid, you know.”

“Really?”

Pesto nods, and Bob can tell he’s well oiled already. “Yeah. Didn’t take direction well, always wanted to do his own thing, never listened.”

“Yeah, I know something about that,” Bob mutters.

* * * * *

_Free! Free! Free!_

Louise’s feet beat a steady tattoo on the sidewalk as she jogs to the park. Once he was properly fed—that was probably the best burger Louise made all day—Gene agreed to cover for her so she could go jogging, and Louise was practically out the door before Gene could get the words out of his mouth.

_“Be back by 7:30 for dinner!” Linda called after her._

_“Ugh, fine, whatever!” She doesn’t want to hassle Linda, who, after all, is still recovering from her heart attack. Besides, the woman did agree to talk to Dad about his constant surveillance. Louise owes her, and if being home in time to pick over a plate of spaghetti squash and turkey meatballs (Bleh!) will make her happy, then so be it._

She double-timed it up to the apartment and threw on her grey and pink running tights, long-sleeved t-shirt, shoes, and running belt with necessities. She barely stopped to fill her water bottle before she bolted out the door. Louise didn’t even take the time to braid her hair in two long tails, as usual, but she pushed her fly-aways back with a wide headband, and tossed the length into a long ponytail that bobs and flaps irritatingly against her back as she pounds the pavement. But that’s okay, it’s a minor problem, because she’s _free!_

Free from random check-ups and check-ins, free from snippy comments, annoying glares, grunts and heavy silences!

Louise doesn’t enjoy running as much as boxing or weightlifting, but she needs to get out of the restaurant, into the fresh air, and honestly, jogging provides a form of therapy that more violent sports don’t. She can box or lift away excess aggression, but running is…meditative.

She rounds the outskirts of the park, passing by the sledding hill. It’s nearing dinnertime, so she can see only a few kids on the playground. Someone’s bouncing a basketball in the distance. Louise focuses on keeping her shoulders back—she tends to hunch a bit when she’s running—as she enters the park.

Home isn’t a pleasant place right now, and not just because she and her father are engaged in near-constant warfare. Anyone looking in from the outside would see little difference, but it’s obvious to the inmates. Gene has the perpetual air of someone whose mind is a thousand miles away, almost as weirdly serious as he was during the Quiet Eli incident. And then, there’s Mom.

Louise enters the park, taking the left fork of the path towards the basketball court. Louise read that heart attack survivors often become depressed, but, oddly enough, the health crisis seems to have given Linda a new lease on life. Encouraged by her coach at the cardiac rehab program, she’s upped her exercise routine and, in addition to regular walks, also takes yoga classes twice a week. Thanks to that and better food choices, she’s lost nine pounds already, and jokes that her muffin top is just a mini muffin now. She’s as cheerful as she ever was, and just last week went on a little shopping spree, even buying a new lipstick to go with her new look.

Louise comes in view of the basketball court. There’s just one guy there, a tall, lean man, with long blond hair tossed carelessly into a top-knot. He catches sight of her, and Louise can almost hear him laugh. He dribbles the ball with one hand, and with the other, points to his own eyes, then her.

_Damn it._ Louise jogs gracefully down the embankment and speed-walks to the court.

The tall blond passes her the ball. “ _Four-Ears._ ”

She catches it easily. “ _Dingleberry._ ”

* * * * *

Bob comes back from the bathroom to find Jimmy brandishing two fresh drinks. He accepts the new round gratefully; is this his second or third Long Island ice tea? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. For the first time in a long time, Bob is hanging out with the guys—well, _a_ guy—and his new buddy has at least as many problems at home as Bob himself.

“So, I don’ know what Pepper’s gonna do,” Jimmy continues, his words mushy and slurred along the edges. “I’ll keep a roof over his head, and pay for his degree. After that, I don’t know. I’m sure as hell ain’t makin’ his child support payments for him!”

“You aren’t leaving your place to him?”

“Nah, I already promised it to the twins, but I’ve made it clear I expect them to always have room for him on their staff, bussin’ or waitin’ tables or whatever. They’re good chefs, you’d know that if you ever ordered from us.”

“We have DiGiorno in the freezer. Close enough.”

Jimmy’s drunk enough to have little volume control. His fake, mocking laugh carries over Bon Jovi singing about walking the streets with a six-string on his back. “Awfully bold coming from someone who can’t even make a living selling hamburgers! That’s the easiest thing in the world to make!”

“Elevating simple foods is a—“

“ _Elevating simple foods is a_ _neh-neh-neh-neh-neh_ , that’s what you sound like, Bob! God, you’re so easy to wind up. No wonder your family’s a wreck!”

Somewhere, there’s a sober part of Bob’s brain that knows Jimmy’s just flinging shit at the wall to see what sticks. But this time he hits too close to home. Bob’s stomach drops and rolls, an angry flush reddens his face. _No wonder his family’s a wreck!_

“And who’re _you_ to talk with your—your—“

Jimmy’s eyes widen; he’s finally gone too far and he knows it. “Woah, slow down there, Bob—“

“—Emo son—“

Jimmy’s not sure if Emos are a thing anymore or not, but he gets the message. “I’m sorry, okay? It was a low blow. Not true, either, your kids are great. I wish mine were half as bright as yours.”

Bob really doesn’t register anything beyond Jimmy’s apology. Jimmy’s pulled some bad stunts over the years, and never apologized for any of them. “You’re…sorry?”

Caught out, Jimmy flushes and falls back to his Italian mobster persona. “Hey, don’t get mushy about it, alright? You know, we were fightin’, and I just—bada-bing, I said the first thing that came to mind.”

“You’ve never aplogoized. For anything.”

“Well, I know a low blow when I hear it. Or say it.”

“Apology accepted.”

The men share a wry smile, and might have even finally buried the hatchet, if a blaring guitar riff hadn’t shot through the sound system. The crowd, recognizing the intro instantly, woops in appreciation.

“Oh shit,” Jimmy snickers, casting a guilty look at Bob.

Bob’s hackles rise. He can’t place the song…he knows this one…his alcohol-saturated brain is screaming warnings…

_“Yey I saw sparks fly, from the corner of my eye  
When I turned, it was love at first sight”_

Jimmy holds up his hands. “Look, Bob, you were in the bathroom, they were takin’ requests—I thought it’d be funny—“

Bob shakes his head like a dog. “Brain, what song is this?”

Then, in a higher pitched voice, he answers, “We don’t know Bob, we’re too drunk. But we don’t like it!”

“Uh, you okay there?” Jimmy’s never seen Bob do anything like this before. Is this some sort of drunken psychosis?

“ _And just when I thought she was comin' to my door  
She whispered sweet and brought me to the floor, she said—”_

The penny drops. Bob turns narrowed eyes to Jimmy Pesto, who’s slowly backing away. “You _dick!_ ”

The crowd pumps the air, singing the chorus with Kip Winger.

“ _I'm only seventeen (Seventeen!)_  
_But I'll show you love like you've never seen_  
_She's only seventeen (Seventeen!)_  
_Daddy says she's too young, but she's old enough for me!_ ”


	3. THREE

_**Saturday Evening** _

“I’m not much of a basketball player,” Louise admits, casually bouncing the ball from one hand to the other.

Logan shrugs. “I’m not either. I like swimming or jogging. But just shooting hoops is okay. Speaking of, shit or get off the pot, Baby B.”

Louise sets herself up, and tosses the ball with a little leap. It pings off the backboard and sails behind them. The two cover the distance with long, graceful strides, but it’s Logan who gets to it first.

“Damn, Louise, you really _do_ suck at this.”

“I’m not a team player, okay, Dingleberry?”

They walk back, Logan bouncing the ball between them. “I’m not either, except when it counts, like at work.”

Logan chuckles quietly, and adds in a high, mocking voice, “ _One team, one dream!_ ”

“Oh barf!” Louise makes a grab for the ball but misses.

“Nice try, Smellcher!” Logan shoots. The ball bounces off the basket and sails directly to Louise.

She catches it with an _oof_.

“That’s the logo on the wall in our break room,” Logan says.

“I would _literally_ gut-punch someone if I had to see that every day.”

Logan grimaces. “I believe it.”

They begin to dance, Louise dodging, weaving as she travels with the ball, Logan attempting to intercept. It’s fun, their eyes twinkle with shared amusement as they shout insults between laughter.

“Come on, little girl, that all you got?”

“You’re just pissy ‘cause our genitals are the same distance from the ground!”

“Aw shuckins, don’ yew play me like that, babygirl,” Logan yells in his twangiest attempt at Zeke’s accent.

“What’re you doing home again, Dingle? Does someone miss his ma-ma?”

Logan grabs the ball and comes to a dead stop.

“Hey! What…what is it?”

Logan’s gone pale under his tan, and there’s a haunted look in his stunning blue eyes she’s never seen before. He glowers at her. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He begins bouncing the ball hard, the sound echoing around them. “She’s dying, Louise.”

Logan shoots again, and this time, the ball sails perfectly through the hoop.

“Oh. I didn’t know. Jeez, I feel like an asshole. Sorry.”

Logan shrugs, and slowly follows the ball as it rolls to the chain-link fence. Louise stands awkwardly, unsure if she should flee or not. _Me and my big mouth._

He returns to her holding the ball, his face calm but sad. “I know you didn’t know. She was diagnosed last month—I wasn’t really in town for some dumb hick renaissance fair, you know. Her cancer’s back; technically, it’s metastatic breast cancer, and it’s spread to her bones. She hasn’t told anyone yet, so shut your butts, coconuts.”

Louise nods.

Logan begins dribbling the basketball, his head bent as he watches it bounce from one hand to the other. “It’s not responding to treatment any more. It’s growing and…the focus is now on palliative care. You know, end-of-life care.”

He looks at her, his face twisted with a pained ferocity that makes her take a step back. “It’s a fucking shitty way to go. The doctors give her another eight weeks, but I hope she doesn’t hold out that long. She hurts so bad…swear to God, I get cancer, I’m just gonna—“ Logan mimes putting a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

“Fuck, Logan, is there…?“ The words die on her lips.

“Anything you can do?” He asks bitterly. “I don’t know, you got any magic mushrooms? _Real_ ones?”

Louise still doesn’t like Cynthia Bush, and she doesn’t know how she feels about Logan, but the raw hurt on his face, in his voice, is like a cheese grater to the soul. _If I were a different sort of girl, I’d offer him a hug and a shoulder to cry on_ , she reflects.

“So you’re out here, shooting hoops.”

“Yeah, I had to get away, clear my head a little bit.” Logan closes his eyes, takes a calming breath. “Didn’t mean to dump on you.”

“Well, the _entente_ is still in effect, so…”

That makes Logan snort. “You just can’t admit we’re friends, can you?”

“Friend _ly_. We’re friend _ly_.”

“Whatever, Four-Ears. Anyway, I’m on leave, and I think I’m gonna look for my own place down here after she’s…well, after.”

“You’re moving back to Seymore’s Bay? I thought you liked working in the big city.”

“I do. It’s just…” He eyes her carefully, clearly measuring how much he can trust her. “Okay, look. Mom and I had a shit relationship from day one, and it dominated the family. I want to spend time with Dad, get to really know him.”

_I don’t know who the hell you are anymore, Louise Belcher!_

“I mean, it won’t be easy,” Logan adds. “We haven’t really talked in years.”

He knows he’s babbling, but he can’t help himself. He hasn’t shared stuff like this with anyone, hasn’t even tried, especially with women. Logan always figured if he tried, the chick would break down and cry, and then he’d cry, and he can’t afford to cry; not yet, not when his parents need him to be strong. But Louise is tough—she’s safe.

Logan looks down at her in the fading sunlight. She’s playing with her long ponytail, chewing her lip in thought.

“How do you begin again? I mean, like, if a parent doesn’t really know you, and you want to, you know, show more of yourself. Be more open—but not get emotional diarrhea? How do people do that without giving away too much?”

Logan knows she’s not asking about his situation. “I’m not sure. I think we’re gonna find out.”

She turns sharp eyes to him, but his face is sympathetic.

“It’s almost dark, I’ll walk you home, m’lady.”

The quiet spell between them is broken, just as he intended.

“Ugh! Try that neckbeard bullshit on someone else, Dingleberry.”

“Uh-uh, little girl.” He takes a risk and flings an arm around her shoulders. “Gimli isn’t here to walk you home, so I guess it falls to Legolas.”

Louise makes a disgusted sound and twists out of his grasp. “You’re a sick-o, Logan Berry Bush!”

But they’re walking side-by-side, in step, as they climb up the embankment and head towards Ocean Avenue.

* * * * *

Bob, somewhat mollified by Jimmy’s repeated apologies, agreed to stay, but only if Pesto bought the next round and an order of chicken wings, because at this point, screw his diet anyway.

“Hey, at least she ain’t pregnant, right Bob?” Jimmy frowns in thought. “She isn’t, right?”

Bob swallows a bite of buffalo chicken. “Uh-uh, we had her tested. Not pregnant, STD free.”

“And pregnancy is the _worst_ STD, am I right?”

Bob doesn’t entirely agree with that, but considering how awful it would be if Louise were pregnant right now—and how _good_ these wings are—he lets it pass. “Yeah, kinda surprised she agreed to it, but at least that answers that.”

“Maybe she wanted to make her daddy happy?”

Bob makes a wet _pift_ sound.

“Well, she…you said she’s agreed not to talk to him or see him until she turns eighteen, right? That’s somethin’.”

“Only because I told ‘em I’d contact the police if she did.”

“Woah!” Jimmy stares at his sometime-rival, both men swaying slightly on their chairs at this point. “You didn’t!”

“Yep.”

“Didn’t know you had the stones. I’m impressed. But you wouldn’t really, right?”

Bob contemplates the condensation rolling down his half-empty glass. “I meant it when I said it.”

“Oh.”

“Can’t risk it now.”

“Whadya mean?”  
  


Bob picks up another wing; one more won’t hurt at this point, right? “Can’t risk her leavin’. They’re all leaving me, Tina, an’ Gene, an—Lin—Lin almost did. Can’t loose my baby too, an’ if I go to the police, she’ll never talk to me again. But _shhhhhhhh_!”

Jimmy Pesto wipes Bob’s spit off his cheek. “Hey, say it, don’ spray it!” 

“I mean it, don’ tell _anyone_.” Bob stares blearily at his half-eaten wing. “My little girl. Thought we had a better relationship than that.”

Jimmy eyes him warily. “You ain’t gonna cry about it, are ya?”

“No,” Bob sniffles. “But I dunno who she is anymore! I look at Louise, and I see a stranger. She-she looks like my Louise, and she sounds like my Louise, but…how the hell do I get to know this kid?”

“Talk to her?”

“We just argue!”

“Then stop arguin’ with her! Jesus Christ Bob, you’re the adult, act like it! Ya know how kids are; if the parent gets upset, they get upset. If the parent—parent stays calm, they stay calm. Take the lead, don’t just follow her!”

* * * * *

“So, where _is_ Gimli, anyway?”

Louise looks up at her almost-friend with narrowed eyes. She and Logan have walked side-by-side in companionable silence for several minutes, enjoying the spring evening, and this is how he initiates a conversation?

“I don’t know who _Gimli_ is.”

Logan sighs. “Zeke. Your redneck boyfriend.”

She glowers at him, but can’t argue any part of that statement. “Up north at school. We—God, it’s so fucked up.”

“What’s fucked up, Four-Ears? Has he dumped you for an even younger model?”

Louise punches him in the arm.

Logan yelps and rubs his bicep, knowing damn good and well he deserves that bruise. “Shit, dial it back, Monsterhands.”

“Don’t be a prolapsed rectum, Dingleberry.”

“So, what’s fucked up?”

She considers his profile. Weirdly, Louise wants to confide in Logan. He'll understand.

“Dad said if we contact each other in any way before my eighteenth birthday, he’ll call the police and let them deal with Zeke.”

Logan’s confident step fumbles. “Seriously?”

Louise nods.

“But—you’re in your majority and—“

She gives him a significant look. “And there’s _reasons_ we don’t want the police involved.”

Standing together under a streetlight, Louise watches as realization dawns over Logan’s face. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess not. The whole Fisch—“

“Uh-huh. So the old man pretty much has me on lock-down. I only got out tonight because he’s hiding at the grocery store! Otherwise, he’s constantly up my ass!” Louise, warming to the subject, begins talking with her hands. “He follows me to school, he put me on this shitty stupid curfew—and I _know_ he’s gone through my school bag! _I’m_ in jail to keep _Zeke_ out of jail!”

Logan cocks his head to the side and listens patiently as she goes on and on listing her father’s totally unfair offenses; he won’t listen to her business ideas, he keeps glancing over her shoulder when she’s texting her friends, he's mean and irritable for like, no reason all the time. “He’s up my ass 24/7 and I’m sick of it!”

Her companion crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, you know he has a point, right?”

Louise gapes at him. “I thought _you_ would get it!”

She makes to flounce off, but he wraps a large hand around her forearm. She glares daggers at it. “Take your hand off me or I swear to God—“

Logan drops his hand. “Will you listen to someone who’s been there, done that?”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “You didn’t have to tell me any of that. You did it because you needed to talk to someone. So, do you want to hear what I think, or what you want to hear?”

Louise’s mouth twists. “Fine, hit me with it, Dingleberry.”

“I think your Dad’s dealing with a lot of shit right now in a bad way, but he wouldn’t do all that if he didn’t—“

“ _Don’t_ say it!”

“Say what?”

Her voice takes on a high, mocking tone. “ _He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t love you._ ”

Logan rubs his eyes. “Look, I know from experience, okay? My mom and I never really had a conversation, we just…talked _at_ each other, and both of us acted out in our own ways. I’d _say_ I’d tried to talk to her, but I never really heard her, I just waited for her to shut up so I could say something else. Maybe if we’d worked together—well, anyway. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be up your ass, he’d be indifferent, or he’d just call the police and be done with it. The fact that he gave you a chance to avoid that means he _wants_ to trust you.”

“But I’m _doing_ what he wants me to do! I’m getting good grades, and doing all the stuff at the restaurant, and following curfew, and I haven’t talked to Zeke in a month! What more does he want from me?”

“He wants to forgive you,” Logan says softly, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Louise looks up into Logan’s unusually gentle face, and knows he’s right. Just as importantly, she wants to forgive herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a bit early, but I doubt if anyone will object. Something about self-isolating, extra time on one's (washed) hands...
> 
> I hope everyone is doing well. So far, my family is fine. My Dad and my mother-in-law are going stir-crazy, as is my husband, who--thank God--can work from home. I work at a supermarket, so the good new is, I'm virtually guaranteed employment. The bad news is, I pretty much wash my hands raw every shift, and still worry about cross-contamination. Still, we're healthy and employed, albeit a bit bored, so I've nothing to complain about. I hope you can say the same.


	4. FOUR

**_ Saturday Evening _ **

Louise and Logan complete their walk to her apartment in silence. Not a very comfortable silence, as both are preoccupied with disquieting thoughts and memories, the kind of _shouldas_ and _oughtas_ that, if left unchecked, nibble away at a person’s soul. By the time they make it to the Belcher’s place the restaurant is closed and it’s quite dark out. Louise looks up and sees the curtains in the apartment twitch; must be her Dad.

“Do you want to go up and say hi? Mom’d love to see you again.”

“I know,” Logan laughs, running a hand over his hair. He looks so irritatingly, arrogantly handsome Louise wants to gut-punch him. “She gave me a hug and a kiss when I ran into her at the store the other day.”

Louise pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. Logan Barry Bush pretty much walks on water as far as her parents are concerned. _Probably wish he were their kid instead of me._

“I—well, I should get home. Maybe you could do me a solid? In return for my amazing advice?”

“What do you want?”

“Could you—uh, tell your parents about my mom? I hate talking about it, but people need to know.”

Louise’s expression softens. “Sure. ‘Night, Dingleberry.”

“’Night, Four-Ears.”

* * * * *

Linda’s smile falls slightly as her daughter enters the apartment alone. “Oh, why didn’t you invite Logan upstairs?”

“I did, he had to get going.” Louise remembers the twitching curtain. “That was _you_? Where’s _Mien_ _Führer_?”

Linda narrows her eyes. “ _Your father_ is going to be out for the evening. He called me,” she adds with a little laugh. “I think we should have lots of black coffee and a sick bucket ready for him. Would you believe he’s out drinkin’ with _Jimmy Pesto_?”

“ _What?!?_ ”

Mother and daughter share a laugh as Linda plays and replays the message Bob left for her from the bar.

“Oh, that’s _hilarious_!” Louise wipes a tear from her eye. “Dad is _so_ screwed.”

“Yeah, I think he is,” Linda sighs with a small smile.

“So what’s cooking then?” Louise sniffs the air. She smells tomato sauce, but can’t make out the rest.

“Chicken a la Gene!” Her brother announces, popping his head out of the kitchen. “Baked chicken topped with a can of chopped tomatoes and a dash of cheese, green beans, and leftover lentil pilaf.”

Louise raises her eyebrows; she can’t help but to be impressed. The old Gene would never volunteer to cook dinner. Of course, this Gene isn’t the best cook. The pilaf will _definitely_ taste like dirt this time around, he'll underseason the green beans, and the tomatoes won’t be able to mask how overcooked the chicken will be. Still, this is Gene, after all.

“My baby’s such a good chef,” Linda coos, as Gene runs back to check on the chicken.

Louise grunts, her mood instantly soured; sure, _she’s_ regularly cooked entire, delicious meals for the family since she was thirteen, but yeah, let’s give her twenty-year-old brother a gold medal because he no longer serves up Cheerios and burnt toast for dinner. Her mind settles back into the familiar groove of meditating on her family’s unfairness.

“Don’t be such a sourpuss,” her mother hisses. “He’s _trying_! He’s leaving us in two months and he’s trying to be independent, Louise.”

“Fine, fine. Okay. Jeez.”

Linda sighs. “You’re so hard on people, Louise. Don’t discourage people who are trying, honey.”

Louise would argue that her brother can be _very_ trying, but decides not to pursue it. “ _Anyway_. Logan had to get home and see his mom.”

“Oh, Cynthia. He’s turned out to be a nice young man—nicer than you’d expect, all things considered.”

“Yeah. About that…um, she’s not doing so hot.”

Linda raises her brows.

“The cancer’s come back. It’s in her bones.”

“Is she…? I should go see her.”

“I’d do it sooner than later. She has maybe a couple of months left, and he says she’s already in a lot of pain.”

“Oh, poor Cynthia! Poor Logan! So young…imagine going the rest of your life without your mommy!”

Louise flinches; she tries hard not to think about that, but the worry is never far from her. It’s not unusual for her to get up at night and listen at her parent’s door. If she doesn’t hear two sets of snoring, she contrives a way to make just enough noise to wake them, unwilling to go to back to bed unless she hears her mother make some sort of sound.

Linda’s eyes are gentle with understanding and love; Louise can be so soft and sweet under her hard exterior, like…like a crab or something. “Let’s see if we can help your brother rehydrate that poor chicken.”

* * * * *

**_ Sunday Evening _ **

Officially, Louise is in the restaurant kitchen working on closing procedures while her mother and brother clean up the dining area, but her mind is a million miles off. She stumbles slightly, almost loosing her grip on a bus tub of clean cutlery.

“Fuck,” she mumbles, sitting down on the stool and flexing her ankle. It’s the same one she sprained the previous spring break. Her tricky ankle, typically fine unless she does something stupid, like lug her vomit-covered fat-ass of a father up a flight of stairs. It’s a permanent reminder of that terrible night, when stupid Logan acted as some sort of irritating guardian angel, and Zeke…

Louise sighs deeply. So much has changed since then. She was such a kid, so immature, imagining that Zeke would be ashamed of her and dump her! Of course, _now_ she realizes that she was projecting like mad, but it felt so real at the time!

She casts a sad look around the kitchen, remembering also when he worked for the Belchers, and how his loud voice, his infectious laugh and can-do positivity filled the place. Remembering too when she could take advantage of an empty kitchen and send him a text or silly meme. What’s he doing now? Is he at work, elbow-deep in order tickets? Red-eyed and couch-locked, floating in a cloud of dank smoke? Flirting with the waitress or--?

Louise shakes her head hard, trying to scramble the thought. She’s being an idiot, and she knows it. Zeke loves her! He’d never be stupid enough to risk loosing her, and if she’s wrong—well, first, she’ll kill him, and second, any man who cheats on her isn’t worth keeping anyway!

After testing her ankle (she knows she’s going to need to use her brace tomorrow), she stands up and puts away the cutlery. It’s not enough to derail her thoughts, the misery train is chugging ahead. It’s a familiar track; if she’s not worrying about her mother dying in her sleep, she’s thinking about Zeke, and the future.

After all, Zeke is a grown-ass man, who can have a real, adult relationship with a real, adult woman, one who isn’t dragging a loud mother and an overbearing father behind her. It would be easier, wouldn’t it, to dump Louise, rather than wait for her to grow up, and then _still_ have to deal with her parental baggage.

Louise doesn’t hear her father quietly push open the kitchen door. Still tired, his head still sore, he’s at maybe eighty percent. She doesn’t notice him for almost a minute, and he uses that time to watch her.

Bob feels like he hasn’t properly looked at his daughter for months…maybe years. Somehow, even at almost six feet tall, even with the increased number of birthday candles, she somehow crystallized in his mind’s eye as the bright-eyed, manic little girl with the pigtails and bunny ears. This Louise is a young adult, a willowy, lovelier version of her mother, her hair frizzy with humidity, a frown creasing her brow, her thoughts clearly unpleasant. This Louise is a familiar stranger that he wants—needs—to know better. She eventually senses his observation.

“’Bout time,” Louise mutters.

Bob grunts and begins stacking plates on the dish rack. “Thanks for helping me earlier.”

Louise blinks; that’s probably the nicest thing her father’s said to her all month. “You needed it. You were a wreck!”

Habit brings angry words to his lips, but Bob checks them. He remembers something from last night, something Jimmy said about taking the lead, setting the tone. “I was,” he agrees. “How’s your ankle?”

“It’s okay,” she shrugs. “I know the drill; ice, use the brace a day or two. It’ll be fine. I’ll rest it tonight while I finish up my algebra.”

Bob nods. He gathers his courage; it’s now or never. “While you’re resting, maybe you could…email that delivery service report to me?”

“ _Really?_ ” Then, with narrowed eyes, she adds, “Why? So you can shit all over it and tell me why it won’t work?”

_Damn it, Louise_ —no, no. _No_. She has a right to be suspicious. He pushes the full rack through the dishwasher. “I’m not promising anything, but if it looks good…Louise, you’ve got a head for business. I-I don’t. If anyone is going to take the restaurant places, it'll be you.”

Unnerved, uncertain how to respond to this Bob, the Bob she hasn’t seen in weeks, Louise frowns. “Sure. I got an A+ on it, by the way.”

“Your mother might have mentioned that.”

Louise smirks; Linda kept her word and talked to her father. Louise’s heart swells with love and gratitude for the singing nutjob that birthed her. She begins wiping the prep table, clearly favoring her good ankle.

“You’re never going to tell me how you _really_ hurt it the first time, are you?”

Louise does a double-take, her heart skipping a beat.

“Come on, you tripped on a _tree root_? Who are you, Tina?” Bob raises an eyebrow. “Were you drinking?”

“No,” she scoffs, and adds without thinking, “I hate alcohol!”

Bob gives her a significant look, but doesn’t ask how she discovered that. “Bet you were stoned out of your mind.”

Louise snickers. Well, she _did_ take a rip or two that night; she wasn’t really stoned, but it’s close enough to the truth for now. “It didn’t help.”

Bob laughs a little and aligns some pans in another rack. Father and daughter share a fond glance; it’s the friendliest they’ve been in a while.

“When did you stop trusting me?” He asks her quietly. “I mean, you’ve always been secretive, and I’ve respected that. I…I thought we had an understanding.”

His quiet, sad tone makes her heart ache. Louise is perfectly comfortable with her anger and rebelliousness so long as she thinks she’s just defying her father’s paper-thin parental authority. She’s helpless in the face of his feelings of personal betrayal.

“I’ve never told your mother about your dealing. Or exactly how much money you had hiding in the apartment. Why couldn’t you trust me with Zeke?”

Louise smirks, remembering how astonished he was when she handed him five grand, insisting that yes, that’s all of it. (Thankfully, she held more than thousand back, and has since doubled that amount).

“I mean, I understand it was exciting, secret love and all that,” he continues.

“Yeah, well, it was bad enough I gave Mom a heart attack—wouldn’t want to put her in the grave, right?”

Her bitter tone, more than her words, cuts deep. Bob blanches. That was probably his worst parenting moment, certainly his most shameful.

“I’m sorry, it was a really shitty thing to say to you.”

Disarmed by his quiet humility, Louise eyes him narrowly, clearly waiting for the catch. “But…?”

“That’s it. It was shitty, and I’m sorry. I know you didn’t give your mother a heart attack, and you weren’t trying to kill her. I was upset, and scared and…I’m sorry, Louise.”

“I keep checking on her, you know, at night.” The words tumble out of Louise’s mouth almost of their own volition. “I mean, Dr. Kitaab said she could have had it in her sleep, and if she’s not snoring I—“

“That’s why you’ve been so noisy lately!”

“Sorry.”

“I thought it was some sort of revenge.”

“No! I—you know.”

Bob clears his throat and blinks back tears. “I…I check on her too.”

Louise risks reaching out and squeezes her father’s hand. He clutches it hard.

“If anything, it’s my fault. It was caused by bad habits. I’ve spent so much time worrying about the menu at the restaurant and…” His throat constricts. He can say no more.

“Hey, she could’ve made dinner more often. I love Mom's waffcicles! And eggs that are sunny, runny, and a little bit funny.”

Bob tries to laugh. He grabs a clean dishtowel and blows his nose. “I’ve been thinking about it and…if you two’d just come to us, honest and upfront—“

“You’d have lost your mind!”

Bob thinks for a minute. “Maybe. At first. But once you got your mom on your side—and we both know you would’ve, eventually…”

Is it true? Could…could she have avoided all the drama, spent all this time dating Zeke openly, if she’d just been upfront and honest from the start? Louise shuts down that line of thinking, at least for the moment; what’s done is done, she’s better at looking forward than looking back.

“What’s your problem with him, anyway? You’ve known him for years, liked him, even hired him. So what if he’s a little older? Do you honestly think he’s manipulating _me_?”

Bob doesn’t like to think about what that…that boy’s done to his little girl. Still, Louise is treating him like a person, not her personal punching bag, so he sets the irritation aside. “It’s not the numbers, it’s where that age difference is. He has so much more experience than you do! And he’s a grown man. And then having it sprung on us, the Epstein thing…”

“ _Tammy._ ” Louise hasn’t forgotten Tammy Larson and the role she played in the whole melodrama, but she’s been too wrapped up with other issues to pursue revenge. Louise mentioned it to Mudflap, who told her not to worry, it’s been taken care of.

" _Louise..._ "

"What, Dad?"

"I know you're mad at Tammy, just...don't do anything illegal, okay? We don't have bail money."

_Like I'd go to **you** for bail!_ Still, she flashes a bright smile. "Never thought about it. Besides, from what I heard, Tammy fled back to school right after the faire, so..."

Bob grunts, but let’s it drop; he knows she won’t let it go that easily. "Well. Zeke. He’s…he's at a different life stage. He’s ready for things you aren’t."

Louise instantly bristles. She’s up for anything, more than equal to any challenge! But…she remembers Logan, and how he and his mother monologued at each other and called it a conversation. Her father’s _trying_ to meet her halfway. Louise takes a breath.

“Dad, we’re just _dating_. I don’t live my life for some guy, come on—look around! You’ve put me in jail for like, a month, and my grades haven’t dropped, have they? Has my work around here suffered? I’m still me, I still have the same goals, and no man will stop me. Ever.”

Looking into Louise’s fierce eyes, Bob can believe that. She won’t end up like Jocelyn, uneducated, pregnant, neglected by the father. Zeke is part of her life, not her entire life, just like Linda said in the hospital, but Bob was too distraught to listen. Bob may never quite recover from being hoodwinked by the pair of them for two years, but he can trust his daughter’s stubborn independence, her unwavering commitment to her goals. Maybe that's a good place to start.

“Okay. I trust you to continue to keep your word and not contact each other until your birthday. We can…forget about curfews. You’re almost eighteen, I guess you know when to come home and go to bed.”

Louise’s eyes brighten. “And you’ll stop playing spymaster, too?”

Bob blushes. “Yeah. Sorry. You’re too old for all that and—“

“And I can’t prove that you can trust me if you don’t give me space.”

“Yeah.”

They exchange a fragile smile. The air between them hasn’t entirely thawed, but the weather’s changed, it’s now springtime, and the ice has shrunk to small patches.

“If, after you turn eighteen, you decide you still want him in your life—“

“I will.”

“—and he still wants to be with you—“

“He will.”

“I’ll…well, I won’t oppose it. I won’t _understand_ it, but I’ll accept it.”

Louise snorts. “You’ll invite him over for Sunday dinner and everything, right?”

She’s joking; the Belchers aren’t Sunday dinner sort of people. Bob’s smile stiffens, but he plows ahead. “If it’ll make you happy, yes. I want us to be a real family again. I don’t…I don’t like all this fighting. I love you, Louise, and I want to be part of your life, but you gotta let me in.”

She’s not _crying_ , of course; her eyes are watering because she flicked a bit of sanitizer water in her face. Louise bites her lip and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Thanks again for reading, commenting, and so on. I really appreciate all the feedback!
> 
> The next story will be out within a month. I'm still waffling on the title, but it focuses on the Belcher siblings and their last, great adventure together before they officially launch into adulthood.
> 
> Stay safe, stay healthy, and wash your hands.
> 
> DangerFloof


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